The moon doesn't cry
Up there in the sky.
Oh, no.
The moon doesn't cry.

The moon is a cynical woman
with long and jet black hair.
She laughs real deep and laughs real hard
and says that she don't much care
that your life is filled with sorrows
that your eyes are full of tears
as she pulls on a tar-filled cigarette
and plays with the studs in her ears.
'Cause the moon, while she sees the cruelty
that you mortals show to your own,
she really don't give a half a damn
Up there on her perch, alone.
And the moon, well, she sees all things,
All the dark deeds done at night.
She watches the men who are hiding their sins
In the gaze of her cool, clear light.
And she laughs and she chuckles, a dirty low sound
'cause it's funny that we try to hide
the evil she sees just as clear as the stars
The moon knows the secrets inside.

The moon doesn't weep
As she lulls us to sleep.
God, no.
The moon doesn't weep.

The moon stirs the tides with her pinky
as she sits with an outstretched hand.
Her nails are as red as your heart blood;
Her skin is as pale as the sand.
The moon sings off-key to a band that's unseen
Of lies, and betrayal, and loss.
Some nights she will dance to a rumba
And leave just to show us who's boss.
She waxes and wanes, but her spirit's the same:
all ruthless and unsentimental.
If she gave you a kiss, you could bet it would burn
with a cold fire that feels elemental.
Wearing a dress of black void and star-flame,
She spits in the sea from above.
She dangles her feet in the ocean, makes whirlpools,
And heckles beach-walkers in love.
The moon is the moon, just a cold orb of stone,
A rock with some ice at its core,
Some flotsam caught up in our orbit. You're wrong-
The moon is much worse and much more.

The moon doesn't sob
When she's doing her job
Hells, no.
The moon doesn't sob.

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